


Fatal Impasse

by spookyscullyy



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s04e13 Never Again, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyscullyy/pseuds/spookyscullyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sometimes you can't stop the pull of the darkness | loosely set during "never again"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fatal Impasse

-  
Love hunt me down  
I can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes  
And feed me, spark me up  
A creature in my blood stream chews me up

So I can feel something  
So I can feel something

Give me touch  
'Cause I've been missing it  
I'm dreaming of  
Strangers  
Kissing me in the night  
Just so I  
Just so I

Can feel something

Touch- Daughter  
-

Scully walked into the office with a heart struggling to escape her chest and tendons pulled so tight she thought she might snap like a rubber band. She glanced around at the familiar dimly lit surroundings and instead of feeling comforted like usual, her hands itched with a perverse urge to destroy. Her eyes lingered over the simple nameplate proclaiming FOX MULDER; asserting dominance in the one space where no one questioned it. She gazed at all the clippings cut out with such care, curated over who knows how many years that she hadn’t been around to witness. Unwillingly, her attention was pulled to the poster that couldn’t be avoided, the manifestation of her partner’s credo: “I Want to Believe”. If someone walked into this basement off the street, with no knowledge of the FBI or extraterrestrial life, they would know who Fox Mulder was, simply by looking around. This same stranger would not even guess at the existence of another individual. 

Her flighty eyes finally settled on the figure behind the battered desk, and her already strained heart beat even faster. She hated him. She looked at the too-long hair curling around his inquisitive eyes and longed to reach out and pull the strands hard enough to warrant tears. She hated the way his mouth pursed around the pencil he held; the obscene casualty of it all. As she remained rooted in the same doorway she had appeared in four years prior, she felt an oppressive weight shift in her sternum; a pressure that had been building for months now. At first she had tried heartburn tablets and pain reliever, but by this point she embraced the sensation with a fierce gratitude, using it to propel her forward. She saw Mulder spit sunflower seeds into the waste bin at his side, and her eyes followed an errant seed that missed its target. She waited for Mulder to lean down and pick it up, but he didn’t move. Of course. Why should he worry? She would clean up his mess, as she always did. 

Scully cleared her sandpaper throat and plopped down in the chair in front of his desk as forcefully as her small frame would allow. She thought she could at least leave an imprint on the cushion, if nothing else. Mulder removed the pencil from his mouth with a wet pop and grinned at her. Scully grimaced in response, no glimpse of humor in her eyes. Mulder didn’t seem to notice the mood she was in, which just made her angrier, the pressure increasing its stranglehold on her core. Of course he didn’t notice, he probably was only thinking of whatever ridiculous case was in the manila file in front of him. Dana Scully always came second to aliens. She wanted to smack the smarmy grin right off his face, turn on her tasteful kitten heels, and walk out of that cramped office forever. Maybe then she would be able to breathe without feeling the stabbing rain of a thousand needles. She was startled out of her thoughts by his voice asking her to go on an assignment. No, not asking, telling.

She thought, enough, and finally opened her mouth: “No”. 

He looked a bit shocked but powered on, as was his way when she (predictably) did not cooperate. “You don’t want to go on the case?”

“I said no. Are you going to order me around like you’re my boss?” Her words were hooked at the end, designed to draw blood, or at least attention. 

He looked hurt, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. Good. “The x-files are our lives, Scully. I thought you wanted to help me. I didn’t realize this was such an inconvenience for you. ”

She stared into his eyes, unwilling to answer or break eye contact. He had touched precisely on one of the things that was currently coating her skin with sweat and making every breath sour. “Mulder, the x files are your life. I never asked for this.”

“Scully..” His eyes looked sorrowful, and her anger wavered. In danger of losing control, she cut him off.

“Last night I got home and was about to make dinner, and you know what I realized, Mulder?” He shook his head very slightly and stayed silent, afraid of the fire in her eyes. 

“I had no food. Not a single bite of anything edible in my entire house. When was the last time we ate meals at home? I’m sick of it Mulder.” She was vibrating with the force of her words, little feet lifting her slightly out of the goddamn uncomfortable chair. 

Mulder cleared his throat and whispered, “Sick of what?” He was too nervous now to even crack jokes, although he pushed his fringe out of his face in an unconscious movement designed to charm and disarm.

“Everything. The fact that I haven’t eaten anything other than greasy diner food in the last three weeks. The fact that I called my mother this morning and I couldn’t come up with anything acceptable to tell her that didn’t involve glowing objects in the sky or government conspiracies. The way that my neck hurts from constantly looking over my shoulder, and I haven’t taken a bath in months because I’m too afraid of what will happen if I relax” she drew a breath and stopped herself from screaming aloud. 

Her eyes had shifted from her partner’s face during this tirade, counting the threads in their shabby carpet instead of witnessing the effects of her sharp words. She wielded them like weapons, but she wasn’t quite willing to see the damage. Seconds ticked by, and when Mulder did not fire back with a lighthearted quip, she was forced to raise her head. 

Mulder was staring at her, seemingly battling regret and irritation. His deep eyes did not allow her any hiding place, and the rage bubbled up and over, transforming into something like terror on the way out of her body; Scully imagined the force of her fury manifesting in a physical way, slashing and tearing at his perfect skin. Repulsed by her own reaction, Scully leapt up and ignored Mulder’s exclamations as she hurried out the door as fast as her heels and skirt would allow. 

She ducked into the nearest bathroom and locked herself in a dingy stall after checking under the doors and ascertaining she was alone. The terror ultimately made itself known to her through the form of scalding tears that left tracks down the carefully applied foundation on her face. She laughed through the wetness at the sight she must make. She took savage glee at the destruction of her meticulously fabricated façade. Hopefully she looked as feral as she felt. Maybe when she left the room someone would look at her and really see her; maybe they would even whisper and talk about her behind her back. What a relief that would be. Fleetingly, nonsensically, she wished she could divorce her soul from her body and just float around for a while.  
She shook that disconcerting thought from her mind and washed her hands at the sink, but left the ruined makeup alone. She smoothed out the cheap material of her skirt stalked out of the restroom chin high, like a haughty lioness. It was 4 pm on a Tuesday, but she felt dangerous, cloaking her fear with the anger, which was easier to stomach. She ran from the look in his eyes and the hunger in her core, out of the darkness of the bureau and into the fading light of the DC streets.  
…

She slid onto a sticky bar stool and ordered a Jameson and ginger, a thrill crawling up her spine as she contemplated drinking alone on a weekday. Her eyes contained a brittle glint and she wore her hair pulled away from her neck, where the ever-present cross glinted sinfully in the dim light of the bar. Deciding not to change after escaping work, she had instead just undone the top two buttons of her blouse. After sucking down the first drink with large messy gulps that pleased her with their crassness, she glanced over at the man to her right. He was dark and slight (like Mulder, she thought, before strangling that completely) with unkempt hair and a tired cast to his face. There was something animal about him that appealed to Scully in the moment. Melissa might have said he seemed cast adrift in the ocean, moments away from drowning. As her cheeks grew hot and her blood sang away in her ears, Scully imagined being the one to reach over and pull him back from the depths. He looked as though he might even appreciate the rescue.

Signaling the bartender for another, Scully’s attention remained caught by the man. Unbidden, she pictured herself pulling him off the stool, back towards one of the shadowy corner of the bar. She imagined allowing him take control as he was overwhelmed by her scent, hurriedly burying his hands under her shirt and his mouth in her neck. Maybe they’d go outside, and she’d let him set her afire, providing the spark and leaving marks, a visible reminder to everyone that she was wanted, desirable, and present. She imagined his lust overpowering his better instincts; she felt the painful ecstasy humming through her nerves, tethering her to the darkness. She closed her eyes and saw herself intoxicated with the power she held. In the dream, her brain short wired, as she finally let go; allowing herself to feel everything. Instead of being afraid of the darkness, instead of running as fast and as far as possible, she could dwell inside of it, sucking it dry of all the writhing poison it contained. She might be stained afterward, but she would be satisfied. 

Back in the bar, the stranger had noticed the intensity of her glance, and was looking back. Scully was shaken to see the similarities of his eyes and Mulder’s. She drained the third glass that had been placed in front of her, and fled for the second time that day. Halfway to the door, Scully stopped. She didn’t need to run like a small child afraid of punishment. She was a grown woman, and she deserved to take what she wanted. Sitting back down at the bar, she asked the stranger about his prominent tattoo, just to take her mind off of the nagging pulsing in her body. 

Two hours later she found herself in a grimy tattoo parlor with the shirt pushed up her back, exposing creamy unmarred skin. No coherent thoughts were forming any longer, her logic and reason left behind in the bottom of an empty glass. She had chosen a design, she forgot what. All she knew was that the creature had been consuming itself, locked in a cycle of self-destruction. The tattoo artist’s story of renewal fell on deaf ears, Scully’s fevered mind focusing on the image of a serpent whose hunger was eternal. When the needle made its first stab deep into her skin, a moan ripped out of her, a primal response awoken from slumber. The needle drove the black ink into her body, almost but not quite reaching the darkness that already dwelled within. She had chosen a place she thought he would never see, excited at the prospect of a secret that she would never share. Always flaunting it under his nose, the first decision she had made in years entirely separate from him.  
…

Flashes of mortality, sensations she could only describe as red: a swelling that started somewhere behind her bellybutton and enveloped her whole body from the tips of the fingers to ends of her hair. A timid grasping of the stranger’s hands (Jerse, some part of her brain prompted) that quickly turned violent, and her own forceful response. She did not motion towards the bedroom, but rather dragged the man down onto her couch, throwing pillows off with unnecessary venom. The hunger to destroy was back, and she was no longer trying to keep it in check. He reached up to undo her buttons, but she swatted his hands away before his fingers could make contact. Scully yanked the blouse off herself with enough force to tear all the buttons, and gave a savage sort of half laugh half howl. Jerse looked perturbed, but Scully took no notice. She lifted her hips high enough to shake off her skirt, making sure to grind down on him during the return journey, the desire for subtlety nonexistent. He jerked suddenly and her blood thrilled, as something within her snapped. A boundary had been crossed, and a door unlocked. On any other day she would have been afraid of what shadows came flickering out of that opening, but now she raced headlong into the fog. 

He was still fully clothed; his hands were too busy running up and down her stomach to notice. He began to pull her down for a kiss, but Scully was not interested. This would not be a kind, gentle encounter. Even possessed by demons as she was, if they slowed down, she knew the face in the back of her mind would rush to the foreground and ruin everything. Already it brushed too close, threatening to turn her burning need into something more painful. She pushed his hands away from her waist and reached down to find his zipper.  
Without preamble, she fucked him while ignoring him completely, closing her eyes and moving the way she wanted. With bones felt like glass, she was determined to shatter on her own terms. This was not a coming together, a celebration or joining of bodies. What was happening on her couch could only be described as a soul tiring of it’s own body and sinking sharpened talons into another in a grasping attempt to stay above the swirling abyss that was sucking her down. This was painful, rubbing salt into an open wound. 

As the sweat gathered and the pace increased, her mind shifted and his hurtful hands became larger and gentler. Lips found hers, and instead of the narrow taut mouth of a stranger, she felt the soft welcoming mouth of someone else. She automatically shied away, but hands kept her head in place. She found herself being lifted and gently flipped so that her back lay cushioned on the too-soft couch. The presence above her mapped out every freckle on her body as if they were stars, burning paths of comets from mark to mark, banishing the blackness licking at her heels. She shivered violently, but the touches did not stop, hands followed soon after by mouth. She felt her sharp edges soften, while the live wire of her nerves stopped burning holes in her lungs and heart and instead made her feel airy and fragile (too fragile, something whispered). As she began to melt, the control vanished and she threw herself into the bright fire, relishing the flicker of the flames and welcoming the burn, but always careful never to open her eyes.  
…

When Jerse left, she didn’t bother to put on any clothes. Any sense of airiness was gone, and Scully was left feeling fragmented and battered. Her tattoo pulsed, but not as sharply as the pressure behind her eyes and the bites around her throat and hips. She filled up her tub and stepped in, legs too weak to stand. She slipped slowly under the water, letting her brittle flame haired locks balloon out from around her tender scalp. The tub was small, but she was smaller, and Scully could relax easily with her whole face under the surface (maybe relax was the wrong word, she thought). The tub was filled almost to overflowing with the hottest water she could stand; the scalding liquid seemed to peel away her outer layers with a purpose that Scully admired. Bubbles started to float up around her nose as the sobs began, hoarse and unwanted. Again, she squeezed her eyes shut tight and moved her head around violently, relishing the cleansing caress of the water and the accompanying lightheadedness. It felt good to spin on purpose. With her ears submerged, the only sounds surrounding Scully were the frantic beating of her own heart and the slow drain of the water out of her tub. 

Too soon, she ran out of breath, and when her forehead begrudgingly broke the surface of the bathtub, the tears joined the water streaking down her face. As the tub grew lukewarm and the heat drew away, Scully brought her small, bruised knees to her chin and held herself in the way she thought he might, if he were there with her. She tried desperately to take deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth, as she had taught herself long ago. After a minute in which the seconds scraped by razor sharp against her pale, damp skin, she gave up. Even as the scent of the stranger drained away with the bath water, the emptiness returned. 

Anger and shame blocked her throat as she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a towel that swallowed up her slim frame. She didn’t bother to dry her hair, and merely slipped into the softest pajamas she could find before going back into the living room to reassemble her couch. There was no evidence of the violent hurricane she had created besides the painful remnants on her own body, reminding her of exactly what she could handle. 

When she finally climbed into bed, she couldn’t stop from replaying her night. Where had the rage come from, and why had it overflowed today, of all days? Why had each tile in the ceiling of their office felt like it might plummet down and crush her? Why had every breath of her partner’s feel like a punch to her own lungs? Why had she surrendered so completely to the creeping darkness that was always so carefully kept at bay?  
She didn’t hate Mulder. She hated the fact that she couldn’t hate him, even a tiny bit. She wished with every atom of her being that she resented him, that she could pack up and leave him forever. What she hated was the fact that when she thought about her life in the next five or even ten years, he was always there, smiling in the foreground. Before her mother and before her brothers she thought of Mulder. He wouldn’t give her her own desk, and yet she couldn’t make a meal in her own apartment without wondering if he’d eaten that day. She paused; she didn’t care about the desk either. 

She had gotten drunk and fucked a stranger because he hadn’t followed her out of the office. She had sat in front of him, begging him to rise to her anger, to counter her claims and to reassure her that the inky blackness she always sensed in the corner of her vision would not overwhelm her and draw her down. She had felt herself spinning out of control lately, bound to this man by an unbreakable thread that pulsed and pulled and tore and shred her to pieces while he looked on, too afraid to break their current equanimity. Why couldn’t he see? Why couldn’t Mulder stop making jokes to mask the speed at which he was running away from himself, and from her? He thought she didn’t notice how much he hated existing in his own skin. How could she miss it when she felt it herself, felt the stretch of a existence that was three sizes too small?

All those long days and nights, following the roads that flowed like blood on the ground, driving towards cases they couldn’t solve, risking it all on a ghost of the hope that they might glimpse a shadow of a truth. Mulder always started so hopeful, singing along to loudly to the radio, speeding as though he thought their journey might bring him closer to the answers he so desperately needed. After: the silent returns, cheerful demeanors deflated and the full weight dragging behind them while the two agents swam in the depths of their disappointment. She knew Mulder grasped the wheel with the white-knuckled intensity of his guilt, that every bite of pie her offered her was a wordless apology. She detested the way he looked over at her when he thought she was asleep, eyes burning her skin with the heat of the responsibility he felt. She knew he thought he had ruined her life. 

She knew all this, and the knowledge made her angry. Always, she longed to rip open the car door and leap onto the pavement, freeing him and also herself from this obligation. The only thing that kept her in the seat was the iron thread that bound them. Even if she somehow managed to muster up the strength to leave, she wouldn’t be able to stay away. To permanently separate from him would be to carve out a substantial amount of her own body; she would not survive the resulting loss. She wanted to free him from this hold as much as he wished she could, but there was nothing either of them could do. 

They were caught in a perpetual stranglehold, connected and fused to one another, never acknowledging the intensity of the bond that trapped them together. They chose to live in pain and torment instead of giving in to the rushing current and clinging to one another. Rather than shouldering the burden together, they each tried to take it all on, resulting in double the load for both. They avoided eyes, except when the compulsion was too much and they stood locked in a vortex, hanging onto each other’s glance for survival. They only turned to one another when the situation was life or death. Every connection was loaded with agony of all the opportunities they ignored and buried. So Scully was forced to choose a stranger, driven mad by the constant closeness and simultaneous distance. Even then it was her partner she imagined, unable to separate her mind’s longings from her body’s needs. She was helpless. 

In the morning, Scully would bandage her tattoo, put on her sensible suit, pack her gun and badge, and apologize. She would not ask again for a desk, unwilling to break their peace. No details would be offered, and in return no questions would be asked. They would settle back down into a routine that kept them distant and strained, but together. The air would remain pregnant with expectation, and they would teeter on the edge of something, both afraid to look at what lay in the chasm, and unwilling to back away from the precipice. Scully would tear herself apart in order to make him see her without putting herself at risk of rejection, and he would contort himself to avoid her gaze, smothering his own desires.

She turned over in bed and buried herself deeper underneath the covers. The situation would never change. She would be choked, tripped, and gagged by the chain that bound, unwilling to abandon him even to free him. She was a selfish being after all, as was he. They would continue to drive and fill the air with the exhaust of their failures. He would cover his pain with sarcastic comments while she pretended not to notice. Scully would bury her aching heart in skepticism and Mulder would act surprised when she chose to follow him instead of staying with her family. She would pretend she could leave at any time, and he would keep telling himself that’s what he wanted. They would continue this dance until both of their feet bled and they no longer had the strength to stand, and then they would lie on the ground together, fingers laced, gazing at the stars that looked down in sorrow, weeping for these two.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't quite decided if i'll continue onto a part two and maybe create some resolution. this was more a cathartic exercise for myself than anything else.


End file.
